


Numerical Data

by hollybennett123



Category: James Bond (Movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angry Sex, Banter, Humor, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 02:24:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5357381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollybennett123/pseuds/hollybennett123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q has shagged James Bond nine times and his life is a <i>disaster</i>.</p><p>(or: Q has a bad day, Bond has a thing for Q's jumpers and the night goes exactly as expected, for the most part)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Numerical Data

**Author's Note:**

> I never intended to write within the 00Q fandom and was perfectly happy just reading the glorious array of quality fic and taking a short break from writing anything at all. Then I went to watch SPECTRE, was annoyed at the ridiculousness of at least half of it (though thoroughly enjoyed any scene featuring my fave babe Q), and decided to work out my frustration and 00Q addiction via lighthearted porn, just because. 
> 
> I've never had a fic get away from me this much; it was supposed to be like 3-4k and then I started writing and I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED. This is 100% a hot mess, and probably more mess than hot. Enjoy???
> 
> Update: This is now being translated into Chinese by the lovely [lnfc0218](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lnfc0218) over at [movietvslash.com](http://www.movietvslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=193123&extra=page%3D1%26filter%3Dsortid%26sortid%3D2%26typeid%3D59%26sortid%3D2%26typeid%3D59)!

There is an inversely proportional relationship, Q had discovered within weeks of joining MI6, between one’s current mood level (dire) and the likelihood of a double-oh agent appearing unexpectedly at Q’s desk to inflict further emotional torment (imminent).

“What an exceptionally gorgeous jumper,” Bond remarks smoothly the moment he steps through the door, giving Q a blatant once-over and somehow managing to convey both genuine appreciation and absolute unreserved sarcasm at the same time.

“Oh, _do_ piss off,” Q snaps at him, glancing up from where he’s sitting at his desk before returning to his laptop and typing furiously. If he ignores Bond for long enough, perhaps the man will get bored and amble back out of Q-branch of his own accord, leaving Q to finish his work in peace.

Or not.

“You seem a bit stressed, Q,” Bond says, master of the completely bloody obvious, leaning against the nearest wall with his hands in the pockets of his thousand-pound suit and appearing entirely too smug. He looks impeccable; given that he got back from his most recent mission yesterday, an easy operation that apparently went off with minimal setbacks, Q has his suspicions that he’s done little to no work at all today and has spent the afternoon lounging around MI6, irritating people and looking unfairly attractive.

Q has been here for the last fourteen hours and feels like a rumpled, farcical mess in comparison, which is doing nothing for his current mood.

“I have had,” Q says tersely, “a very trying day.” He jabs at the keyboard so aggressively that the spacebar jams at one end and he’s forced to poke at it morosely until it unsticks. When he casts a quick look at Bond from the corner of his eye, he’s not made any attempt to move from his new-found viewing spot by the wall. “Why are you here, exactly?”

“Ah,” Bond says, as though he’d completely forgotten; like none of this is a carefully orchestrated ploy for attention, or a source of amusement, or whatever it is that Bond is actually looking for given that it’s quarter past ten on a Saturday night and everyone else has long since gone home. “I came to return this.”

Drawing his hands out of his pockets, he crosses the room to face Q at his desk, placing a small, hooked piece of metal in front of him and sliding it across to Q with two fingers. Q raises an eyebrow, looking down at it, and then back to Bond, and finally to Bond’s pocket which appears to be empty. Surely _not_.

Four days ago, Q gave Bond a state-of-the-art Walther and a weary-sounding promise of a bollocking should he once again fail to return his weaponry in a fit and proper state. The only remaining piece of said weapon, pathetically small where it lies glinting on Q’s desk, is the trigger, somehow neatly detached from the gun it’s supposed to fire. It’s almost more insulting than if he’d brought nothing at all.

“Are you joking? Where in God’s name is the rest of it?” Q grits out. It’s an effort not to grind his teeth together. He’s fast developing a headache and he doesn’t deserve this, he really doesn’t. He wonders, distantly, if he did some ghastly thing in a past life and being forced to put up with this nonsense is his punishment.

“There was an incident,” Bond says, entirely unrepentant. “Sorry.”

“And the phone I gave you?”

Bond’s expression transforms into a sheepish look of faux remorse that tells Q everything he needs to know.

“Brilliant,” Q sighs, throwing his hands up before he starts hitting things that could potentially break. “That’s just bloody _brilliant_ , isn’t it? Have you any idea how long it took me to devise that technology and have the equipment assembled?”

“Oh, weeks, I’d imagine,” Bond murmurs.

He doesn’t even appear to be listening properly, his eyes sweeping over Q’s cheekbones and lingering at his mouth a little bit too long in a way that makes Q’s breath catch momentarily. Q is absolutely, definitely not about to start blushing like an idiot with a crush.

“Yes. Quite,” Q replies eventually, and stabs at the trigger with his index finger. “What the fuck do you expect me to do with this, exactly?”

Bond smiles. “You’re a clever boy, I’m sure you’ll work something out.”

Q exhales slowly through his nose and dials up his glare to maximum, murderous capacity, and Bond only looks more amused, because he’s a terrible, intolerable person and Q never wants to lay eyes upon him ever again. He isn’t sure what the official punishment would be if he forcibly jammed the trigger up Bond’s nose, but he imagines it’d be worth it. Given Bond’s reputation, the rest of MI6 may be quite sympathetic, actually, and let Q off on account of him being provoked. They may even applaud him, give him some kind of special prize; it’d be lovely.

Q is possibly somewhat sleep deprived.

“Here,” Bond grunts after a few moments of tense silence, sliding the supposedly lost phone out of his back pocket and holding it out for Q to take. Q stares at it disbelievingly and Bond shrugs. “The gun was lost; bit of a commotion involving a helicopter and a ravine. The phone works, though.”

Q plucks it from Bond’s hand, finally, but continues to frown at Bond because nothing makes sense and he’s very cross and really rather tired now.

“And you didn’t think to tell me this before because – ?”

“Because,” Bond smirks, leaning closer over the desk, voice pitched low and full of intent, “you’re really quite stunning when you’re pissed off. Even more so than usual.”

Q opens his mouth, and then promptly shuts it again; his heart is pounding in his chest and it’s so _stupid_. He’s actually flustered by this complete and utter arse and it’s appalling.

“Um. Thank you. For returning this?”

Cocking his head slightly to one side, Bond gives Q a smile so slow and filthy it ought to be illegal.

“I’d really like to put you up on this desk so I can give you a good, thorough fucking, if you’re in the mood,” he says, delivering the non sequitur with the absolute surety of someone who can’t even imagine that he could possibly be turned down.

Q forgets how to breathe for an entire five seconds, scowls and turns back to his work, ignoring the spark of arousal which that particular declaration fires up. If he’s feeling rather lightheaded, it’s entirely because he spun his chair to one side a bit too quickly.

“As I told you two weeks ago, _never again_. That was the last time.”

“Actually, last time you said that the time before that was the last time,” Bond says dryly, turning to half-sit, half-lean against the desk, facing away from Q and drumming his fingers against the polished edge. Q is too furious and lacking in sleep to parse his way through that ludicrous-sounding statement. He’s just going to have to take Bond’s word for it. “You then changed your mind, told me it would never happen again after _this_ time, and started undressing yourself.”

Q blinks at him rapidly, or rather at his back, and the sleek lines of his perfectly tailored suit.

“Right,” he says. “Well. Yes.” Shit; Q remembers it all too well now. “That genuinely was the last time though.”

“I’d almost believe you, except you said the same thing the previous eight times as well.”

“Well, I – ” Q starts, and then pauses. “Wait, eight times? We’ve shagged on a total of _nine separate occasions_?”

Bond turns and looks at him over his shoulder, an annoying little quirk to the corner of his mouth like Q’s being slow on the uptake. Q thinks it over in his head: twice at Bond’s flat, three times in Q’s house, and four times on or over varying pieces of government-funded furniture on MI6 property. It’s almost endearing that Bond’s been keeping count, if anything the man does could ever be considered such.

Q has shagged James Bond nine times and his life is a _disaster_.

“It’ll be ten times, after tonight,” Bond adds helpfully.

Letting out a quiet groan of frustration, Q puts his head in his hands. “Go _away_ , 007.”

When he looks up, Bond is once again facing him; the dark grey suit and soft turquoise shirt make his eyes look ridiculously blue, sharp and striking, and Q hates that he even notices these things.

“So, just to clarify, you’re not going to let me fuck you on your desk?” Bond says, his tone suggesting that he finds this entire conversation hilarious.

For a man whose demeanour tends to sit somewhere on the scale between ‘indifferent’ and ‘surly’ even on a good day, a spot of irritating Q of an evening seems to perk him right up.

All Q has to do, of course, is decline: give him an actual, genuine _no_ and he knows with certainty that Bond would smile magnanimously and bid him goodnight with no pressure and no hard feelings. He’d try again another day, probably, unless Q made it clear that it wouldn’t be tolerated, but he wouldn’t press the issue.

“ _Obviously_ not,” Q retorts. He does have some willpower, somewhere, and perhaps even a shred of dignity left. Bond remains silent, his expression kind, the epitome of patience. Q takes a total of four breaths before he heaves a sigh and runs a hand through his hair, which is reaching all-new levels of unruly. “I have the day off work tomorrow and I’d like to go home. If you’re going to fuck me, you can fuck me in my bed.”

Bond looks pleased in a rare and genuine way, his expression softening around the edges. It’s terribly disarming.

“On several conditions,” Q adds, looking up at him; when he tries to look away, he finds, curiously, that he can’t. “We’re taking the tube, because I want to. I’m not in the mood for conversation, and I don’t want anyone we know to see us together, so you’re going to remain at least ten metres away from me at all times and you’re not going to talk to me until we get back to my house.”

He sets his jaw, daring Bond to argue. The thing is, Q hasn’t the willpower to say no to him, lured in every time by Bond’s charisma and the memories of just how fucking _spectacular_ it is. He doesn’t want to want this, can think of a dozen reasons off the top of his head why it’s a terrible idea and always has been, but bugger it he _wants_.

He’s entirely aware that he’s being obnoxious, but if Bond changes his mind about it, then Q doesn’t have to; it’s hardly the easiest or most logical approach, but then Q’s never made any claims to being anything other than difficult.

Bond looks unperturbed by any of it, though, as if Q’s demands are entirely reasonable.

“Can I look at you?” he asks softly, all charm and gaze so heated that it momentarily steals Q’s breath from him.

Q swallows, mouth suddenly dry. “Yes,” he says after a pause, not quite managing to suppress his smile as he rolls his eyes. “If you’re subtle about it, I don’t see why not.”

Bond gives him a satisfied look and scans the room, his eyes landing on an empty chair in the corner. Pulling it over and sitting down, he takes a pile of gun blueprints from Q’s desk and starts casually flicking through them.

“Let me know when you’d like to leave.”

A combination of tiredness and distraction means that in all honesty Q feels quite done with work now, one of the rare times he feels really rather drained by it and in need of a well-earned break. He spends the next few minutes tying off any loose ends, answering emails and backing everything up while Bond sits quietly and lets him get on with it without further interruption.

“I’m going upstairs to use the showers,” Q says finally, shutting everything down. He could wait until he gets home to do so, but it’s fast approaching hour fifteen since he started work, longer still since he left the house this morning, and a shower and a fresh change of clothes honestly sounds like heaven right now. “You are going to sit in here for the next ten minutes and you aren’t going to touch anything at all.”

“Of course,” Bond agrees mildly. “Do hurry back.”

~*~

 “Another jumper?” Bond comments when Q returns. “One of my personal favourites, I always did have a thing for maroon. Almost as provocative as the navy cardigan I see you in from time to time, the one with all the buttons; how anyone you work with can keep their hands off you is beyond me.”

Q opens up his laptop case to start packing away his belongings, and ponders as he adjusts his glasses whether it’s possible to inadvertently accelerate the deterioration of one’s sight through excessive eye-rolling. He may have to bring it up the next time he visits his optician.

There’s an almost-finished cup of tea still on Q’s desk, and he swirls the liquid around contemplatively; the dregs will be lukewarm by now, but it’s probably easier to just drink it down than bother to go to the tea point.

“First of all, your memory regarding my wardrobe is worrying; I’m genuinely a bit alarmed. Secondly, you like to think you’re being sarcastic, but you’ve mentioned my jumpers to me on several occasions and seem to have a particular thing for cardigans. Is this some kind of developing perversion I should be aware of?”

“I prefer to think of it as a knitwear fetish,” Bond says, absolutely deadpan and timed perfectly to the moment where Q brings his mug to his lips, “and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t shame me for it.”

Jesus _Christ_. Q nearly chokes on his tea and has to press the backs of his fingers to his mouth to keep from spitting it everywhere, shoulders shaking with laughter. Bond watches him with obvious amusement and a general air of accomplishment, and Q has a sneaking suspicion that Bond’s trying his damndest to improve Q’s bad mood, which is -- something Q isn’t going to dwell on.

“Noted,” Q says primly once he’s composed himself, slipping his empty mug into his laptop bag and hoisting the strap over his shoulder. “Please literally never speak to me ever again.”

If he’s still smiling just a little bit as he walks through the door, and if he checks more than once to make sure that Bond is still following behind him at a distance, neither of them feels the need to acknowledge it.

~*~

For all that taking the tube was Q’s idea, he begins to regret it rather quickly and almost wishes they’d just taken a cab and been done with it.

For one thing, Bond’s playing fast and loose with the ten-metre rule, which isn’t remotely surprising but nonetheless rather annoying. Although he could have opted for any of the other near-empty carriages on the train, he steps straight onto Q’s, forever lurking like a shadow in his periphery.

While Q seats himself in one corner and busies himself with a book, Bond insists on standing near the doors and casting lingering looks in Q’s direction while Q steadfastly tries to ignore him. Despite spending a significant amount of time watching Q, however, Bond spends a great deal more of it looking at other people; he eyes up at least four women and three men within the first five minutes, and those are just the ones Q actually sees.

In one case it turns to outright flirting with a man so handsome and sharply-dressed he looks like he could have stepped straight from the pages of a glossy, high-fashion magazine. Their conversation is too quiet for Q to pick up on, and when Q glances up he sees Bond lean in close, enticing, to whisper something in his ear. Bond looks straight at Q, and so does the man, and Q can feel his cheeks burning as he quickly looks back down at his book, eyes narrowed in annoyance; he’s read the same page numerous times now and taken in precisely none of it.

He has no qualms with Bond being with other people; it’s hardly Q’s business given they aren’t in any kind of a defined relationship, and he’s never been one for petty jealousies or possessiveness anyway. In fact, he’s always found it quite thrilling in its own peculiar, voyeuristic way, watching or listening to Bond flatter and seduce from afar. If Q had wanted to be gawked at by a stranger on the tube, however, he would have invited it.

Bond’s companion moves to leave the train as it pulls into Victoria, and Q almost expects Bond to go with him; it hardly makes sense that Bond would go home with Q when he could have, well, _that_. Q would scarcely be able to blame him, but there’s a terrible pang of disappointment at the idea of being cast aside at the last moment.

Bond doesn’t leave, though; merely wishes his admirer a good evening, looks briefly over at Q as if to check he’s still present, and goes back to people-watching. When Bond steps off the train behind Q a few minutes later, it’s an oddly powerful feeling knowing that he's after Q’s attention above anyone else’s, at least for tonight.

It doesn’t surprise Q in the slightest when, upon reaching the front door to his house, Bond is already waiting for him despite having been behind him when they left the tube station and at no point visibly overtaking Q as he walked.

“There’s a quicker route,” Bond says bluntly.

“Really? How lovely,” Q snipes, slipping his key into the lock. He’s curious but he isn’t going to ask; Bond’s idea of a shortcut probably involves several counts of trespass and casually scaling a wall or three.

“My, we are in quite the temper today,” Bond murmurs like the patronising git he is, touching his hand to Q’s lower back in a fleeting tease of physical contact as he follows him inside.

Q takes off his bag and hangs it up on a peg in the hallway, and when Bond unknots his tie and shrugs off his suit jacket he chooses to hang them straight over the top of Q’s bag like he owns the bloody place.

“Well, you already knew I was in a dreadful mood,” Q says as he takes off his shoes. Bond places his own next to Q’s on the rack, and it’s unnerving how effortlessly Bond seems to slot into Q’s life. Equally unnerving is the fact that Q is starting to find that he really rather _likes_ it. “You didn’t have to come back here with me, you could have gone back to your own place when you had the chance.”

There’s something knowing in Bond’s gaze like Q is being all too transparent.

“Now why would I do that?” he says warmly.

Q pushes and pushes with words and Bond remains immovable in the face of every single one, and sometimes Q doesn’t understand him at all; he keeps waiting for Bond to give up, get bored, prove Q right in his uneasiness about them ever getting involved in a less-than-professional sense, and yet still Bond pursues him like all of this is somehow worth it. Against his better judgment Q appears to be falling for a licensed killer who has a penchant for stroppy, cardigan-wearing colleagues and it’s possibly the most disconcerting thing to ever happen to him.

While he stands in his own hallway having a minor personal crisis, Bond doesn’t appear to be suffering from any such problem and lets himself into Q’s kitchen. When Q follows behind moments later, he arrives to the sight of his cats weaving their way happily around Bond’s legs, a flash of gleaming black and silver tabby. Traitorous little shits, the both of them.

“Hello girls,” Bond says, crouching down to stroke them as they purr contentedly and lean into his hands. “I believe it’s time for your dinner.”

Q frowns in confusion as Bond makes his way over to the cupboard under the sink and pulls out two pouches of wet food for them. “Are you feeding my cats?”

“I know what they have, I saw you do it the last time I was here,” Bond reassures him gruffly, as though that’s the part that’s shocking here.

James Bond is striding about Q’s kitchen in his socks and bloody well feeding his cats, and Q can’t think of a single thing to say in response.

“I don’t suppose you have any wine in the house?” Bond asks him as he bins the empty packets of cat food and turns on the tap at the sink in order to wash his hands; his tone suggests he already knows the answer to that one.

“Not today I don’t,” Q says. “I hardly knew I was going to have company, did I? I have water, tea, or if you’re feeling particularly daring, orange squash.”

Bond takes the tea towel that’s hanging next to the sink and uses it to roughly dry his hands.

“Cute,” he says with a raised eyebrow. “Are you seven?”

“I don’t think orange squash has an age limit,” Q huffs, leaning against the worktop with his arms folded.

Bond laughs, more a soft exhale of breath than anything else as he shakes his head, and doesn’t ask for anything further. The silence that follows is unexpectedly comfortable, both watching the cats as they finish their dinner.

Once they’re done with their food bowls, Q gives them both a quick stroke and a rub under their chins before walking over to the back door to let them out into the little garden behind the house; it’s mild enough that they can stay outside for the night to avoid getting underfoot.

“I’m going to have words with the pair of you later about where your loyalties lie,” Q warns them in hushed tones as he opens the door and steps out, watching them fondly as they scamper away.

Animals are, without a doubt, so much easier to deal with than people and decidedly better company the majority of the time. Apparently Q’s cats approve of the man currently making himself at home in Q’s kitchen, though Q supposes that probably just means that he and his pets share equally tragic taste in men.

As Q heads back inside and shuts the door, Bond gently captures his wrist as he passes to pull him in close; his fingertips dip under the edge of Q’s sleeve, brushing over the pulse point there, and it’s far more arousing than it has any right to be.

“You’re much too tense,” Bond murmurs, not making any move to touch Q further even now they’re standing face to face. “I’d like to do something about that.”

His thumb moves in delicate spirals over Q’s wrist and the base of his palm, and it’s all Q can do to keep his breathing steady.

“What did you say to the man on the train?” Q says randomly, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. It’s not -- _important_ , but Q’s mind skips back to that moment nonetheless.

Bond pauses, raising his eyebrows a fraction, but doesn’t look overly shocked at the sudden change of topic. His hand stills on Q’s arm but remains there in a loose grip, his fingers encircling Q’s narrow wrist with ease.

“If I made you uncomfortable then I’m sorry,” he says, his expression inscrutable, but he doesn’t let his eyes leave Q’s even for a moment.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Bond gives a small quirk of a smile, slipping effortlessly back into seduction mode. “I told him I couldn’t go back to his hotel room as I had my eye on the beautiful young man sitting further down the carriage,” he replies, and while his tone is still charming, teasing, he also appears honest.

Q has to fight the overwhelming urge to kiss him, standing so close with Bond’s unwavering eye contact acting as an impossible pull.

“He probably thought you ridiculous,” says Q instead.

“For thinking I had a chance with you?” Bond counters, entirely smug which – given they’re standing centimetres apart in Q’s kitchen and _it’ll be ten times, after tonight_ – he has a point, though it’s entirely the opposite of what Q was aiming for.

“For turning him down, and for saying that you thought I was beautiful.”

Bond huffs an exasperated little laugh at that. “I wasn’t _exaggerating_ , Q. For someone so clever you’re completely fucking dense; you should think more highly of yourself.”

“Like you, you mean?” Q says archly; he finds that it’s difficult to stay angry when Bond starts being complimentary, even if he did manage to insult Q within the same breath. “And I think you’ll find that flattery will get you nowhere with me.”

It is, and Q knows it, a lie.

“Yes,” Bond says simply. “And actually, I think you’ll find that it gets me _everywhere_.”

He places a warm hand against Q’s cheek, gently cradling his jaw and observing him like he’s something to admire, interesting and pleasing to look at. It makes Q burn hot inside; makes him _ache_ at the attention.

“You know, he seemed very taken with you as well,” Bond says, and when he leans forward Q expects him to press their lips together; instead he tugs Q even closer and tilts his head so he can speak quietly against Q’s ear. “I should have brought him back here with us; perhaps we could have shared you.”

Q exhales softly, the flutter of arousal in response to Bond’s words unexpected but not unwanted.

“You’re awful,” Q complains, and somehow it sounds like praise. “Maybe I should have invited him back here and left you on the bloody tube so I wouldn’t have to put up with you.”

Bond leans back with an amused expression and, frustratingly, still makes no move to kiss him. “May I?” he asks, as infuriating as he possibly can be as he briefly touches the pad of his thumb to Q’s lower lip.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Q snaps and closes the gap, finally, his fingers tangling in Bond’s shirt at his waist.

Bond has a way of kissing like it’s not just something he wants, but something he can’t live without; like he’s drowning and needs it like breathing. He twists around Q to press him up against the sink but Q shoves him back, walking them across the kitchen until they stumble into the worktop on the other side.

Q’s restless with pent-up energy and adrenaline-fuelled exhaustion, desperate and needy with it, and he braces his hands against the surface, trapping Bond in place within the bracket of his arms in order to kiss him soundly.

“Demanding thing,” Bond teases, and sucks lightly at Q’s lower lip in a way that makes Q’s legs feel weak.

“Fuck you,” Q gasps, breathless.

“If you want,” Bond replies easily. “I seem to remember you were really quite good at it.”

When Q falters for a moment, Bond takes advantage of his diverted attention in order to spin them around again, slamming Q up against the worktop hard enough to bruise. It takes Q a moment to even remember what they were talking about, dizzy with want.

“No,” Q responds after a brief moment of indecisiveness; thinks _maybe next time_ and then shuts that train of thought down fast.

Everything’s rather too _hot_ , and Q pulls back momentarily to peel his jumper off, chucking it onto the floor and adjusting his glasses where he’s knocked them askew in his haste. Bond works a hand under Q’s shirt, fingers splayed over the bare skin of his hip, and uses the other to undo the top two buttons and nudge the collar aside to better expose Q’s throat and collarbone.

“If memory serves,” Bond says as he strokes delicately down the column of Q’s neck, “you quite like it when I put my mouth here.”

“Oh _god_ ,” Q moans as Bond presses his lips to the sensitive spot below his ear, working his way down to the muscle of his shoulder and back up. When he bites down gently and sucks hard enough to leave a mark, Q pretty much loses the ability for coherent thought entirely. “Oh fuck, oh fuck _me_ ,” he gasps, shuddering, and curses the fact that Bond knows all of his weaknesses.

“Loud,” Bond breathes appreciatively against Q’s ear.

He apparently feels the need to say nothing else, and promptly resumes tormenting him with his mouth.

When Bond finally stops mouthing at him, Q’s so hard it hurts and completely stupid with it. He can barely stand straight, let alone think straight, and Bond looks terribly pleased with himself.

“That really isn’t on,” Q scowls as he catches his breath. “You shouldn’t be allowed to be so good at that.”

“Did you know you’re even more posh than usual when you’re begging?” Bond says smoothly, and brings their mouths together once again.

Q gropes for Bond’s erection through his suit trousers and gives it a squeeze, tracing the outline with his fingers, and while Bond has remarkably good self-control, Q is able to get a vindictive sense of achievement at the catch of breath he gets in response and the way Bond’s sharp eyes go hazy for a moment.

“If you’re completely incapable of controlling what comes out of your mouth, perhaps you should put it to better use,” Q suggests.

Getting down carefully onto the flagstone tiles, first to one knee and then the other, Bond looks up at Q as if awaiting further instruction. His expression is amused, like he’s very much considering ignoring Q’s demands but is willing to humour him for now for pure entertainment value, and his cockiness is both irritating and wickedly attractive on him.

“Wait, you should kneel on this,” Q says awkwardly, nudging his jumper towards Bond with his toes. “It’s hard – ”

“Is it, now?”

“The _floor_ ,” Q says pointedly. “Or, you know, bugger your knees up and complain about it tomorrow, I’m not fussed.”

In the end, Bond concedes and shifts to pull the jumper underneath himself to kneel on like it’s a chore; god knows the man is incapable of looking after himself, and if Q has to be the sensible one here then so be it.

“How thoughtful of you,” Bond smirks, running his palms up Q’s thighs. “Though, you really ought to take better care of your clothes – or maybe just own better clothes in the first place?”

“You really ought to be quiet,” Q mutters, and then has to grasp white-knuckled at the edge of the worktop for balance as Bond unzips Q’s trousers and eases them down over his hips, painstakingly slow.

He gives Q’s cock a couple of easy strokes, close enough that Q can feel his breath on him in warm gusts, and then takes Q into his mouth with a satisfied hum. Q makes an unintelligible sound which Bond seems to take in the encouraging spirit with which it was intended, and starts sucking him off with neat, rhythmic pulls, his mouth impossibly hot and perfect as he works up to taking him steadily deeper.

Although Bond tends to keep his eyes either closed or focused on the task in hand for much of the time, every so often he flicks his gaze upwards to make eye contact and it’s so intensely erotic that it makes Q’s breath catch in his throat, every time.

“Fuck,” Q sighs, toes curling against the floor.

Bond makes a grunting sound of agreement, pulling off momentarily, and when he licks over the head of Q’s cock with the flat of his tongue Q’s vision whites out for a moment, his head tipping back to thunk against the wooden cabinet behind him.

“God, don’t get me too close,” Q says, somewhat surprised when the right words come out in the right order.

“We certainly wouldn’t want that,” Bond breathes in return, and Q really needs to stop initiating anything which Bond could interpret as a conversation because every second he spends talking is one where Q isn’t experiencing the exquisite heat of his mouth.

Thankfully Bond swallows him down again almost instantly, less suction and more light teasing with his tongue than before. His hands come to rest on Q’s backside, holding him in place, and just when Q thinks that Bond couldn’t possibly take him any deeper he pulls him forward by the hips with a small jolt; Q’s cock nudges firmly into the back of Bond’s throat as he swallows and it’s so unexpected and spectacular that Q probably would have toppled over sideways if it weren’t for Bond’s hands holding him steady.

Bond looks up at him as smugly as a person can do with their mouth full, and Q lets out a shaky breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding. When he prods gently at Bond’s jaw with his thumb he pulls off completely, sliding back slowly until Q’s cock slips free; it’s wet and slick like Bond’s mouth, lower lip glossy with spit, and the sight alone almost gives Q breathing difficulties.

“I’d tell you how good you are at that, too,” Q says, still clutching the worktop for support, “but I rather think you already know.”

Bond quirks a brow at him and stands up, licking the wetness from the corner of his mouth and looking devastating while doing so. “By all means, feel free to stroke my ego.”

“Tempting,” Q smiles, tucking himself back into his trousers and zipping them up halfway for the sake of decency. Slipping past Bond, who cocks his head with a curious look, Q heads for the door to the hallway, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt as he goes. “However, I’d prefer it if you came upstairs and fucked me.”

He’s pretty much undressed by the time he reaches his bed, his socks the last to go, and lounges back on the mattress propped up on his hands. Bond is decidedly slower in getting out of his clothes, taking his time over it and putting on a show.

“Could you hurry up?” Q asks him.

“Desperate for it, are you?”

Dear _god_ , his boxer briefs are so tight and near-transparent that Q can see everything. Q tears his eyes away from the obviously visible shape of Bond’s cock straining at the thin material and gives a disinterested sigh as he falls back onto his elbows.

“I’m getting terribly bored.”

“You’re a cheeky little shit,” Bond says, and Q smirks right back at him.

Finally naked, Bond climbs onto the bed on his knees and Q spreads his legs to make space for him. Bond takes Q’s glasses from him carefully, folding them and placing them on the bedside table, and then braces himself over him in order to kiss Q so deep and so filthy that it makes his head spin.

As Bond grinds his cock into the crease of Q’s thigh, Q arches up to meet him, rubbing off against his hip; it’s good, _really_ good, but Q is, as Bond so rightly guessed, desperate for it. He eases Bond back with a hand on his chest so he can twist to one side and open the bedside drawer, fumbling with his arm outstretched until he finds the plastic tube of lube and handing it over to Bond when he does so.

“You needn’t take your time about it,” Q says, which he thinks is surprisingly eloquent given he’s fast approaching a state of ‘just put it in me’ neediness.

Bond gives a small nod and it’s hard to tell whether it’s acceptance or whether he’s fully intending on ignoring Q’s request, but either way he starts slicking up his fingers and Q finds he doesn’t really care as long as he gets something sooner rather than later.

The first finger goes in easily, and the second barely registers a minute later, distracted as Q is by Bond’s mouth on him, kissing his neck and the curve of his shoulder before tonguing at one nipple and then the other. Languidly twisting his fingers, Bond screws them deep and spreads them slightly as he pulls back out, rubbing tantalisingly alongside Q’s prostate to make him shiver and roll his hips, seeking more.

When Bond pushes up onto one hand to put some space between their bodies Q props himself up on one elbow, reaches for Bond’s cock and gives him a slow, squeezing pull that has Bond swearing under his breath, a hot pulse of precome drooling stickily down onto Q’s hip as he slides the foreskin over the head.

“Christ,” Q murmurs, dropping his head back down onto the pillow, “you always get so wet.”

Q loves it, every time they’re together, something powerfully stimulating in seeing the visual evidence of how much Bond is affected.

Bond gives a quiet hum of agreement, distracted by the glossy trails left across Q’s skin. He smears the wetness with his thumb, dragging it in shining streaks across Q’s hipbone and the dip of his belly, and his eyes are dark as he tracks the movement.

“Condoms are in the bedside drawer,” Q tells him, and tries not to sound overly eager.

Smoothly sitting back on his heels, Bond moves away momentarily to search through the drawer. "Interesting,” he smirks, trailing his fingers carefully over its contents.

Q had forgotten entirely that Bond hadn’t seen inside that particular drawer during the previous times he’d been in Q’s bedroom. Still, Q isn’t ashamed of the sex toys he owns and feels no need to defend himself; his taste is exquisite, thank you very much, and Bond cannot possibly argue.

A considering look on his face, Bond casts a lingering glance over the toys and eventually retrieves the condom he went in there for.

“One day I’m just going to play with you for hours,” Bond muses as he slips two fingers back into Q, easy as anything.

The feel of him stroking from the inside is intense enough as it is, but it’s made all the more filthy by the way Bond is staring at the place where their bodies meet, watching his fingers as they take him apart. A third finger joins the two already inside him, careful and coaxing, and a dull, aching stretch chases the drag of them before fading to a pleasurable sense of fullness when Bond eases them back and thrusts in gently again.

“Oh god,” Q breathes.

“I’d eat you out first,” Bond says nonchalantly, and Q feels hot all over at the memory of the last time he did so; the overwhelming pleasure of it, and the blush of stubble burn on his inner thighs that lingered long after. “Tongue you open right here,” he continues, thumbing lightly over Q’s sensitive rim, “and then slip each of your pretty toys into you one after the other to see if I can work out which one’s your favourite.”

Q drapes a leg over Bond’s back in encouragement. “Speaking of putting things in me,” he asks, trying in vain to keep his voice level, “are you planning on actually fucking me anytime soon?”

“Impatient,” Bond admonishes, his voice a low growl, and curls his fingers so perfectly that Q’s knees shake.

He lets them slip free though, after that, wiping the excess lube off on his thigh and reaching for the condom packet where it lies forgotten on the bed. Taking advantage of the rare opportunity to stare outright at wherever he pleases, Q watches as Bond rips open the foil and rolls the condom onto himself, admiring Bond’s hands above anything else. They’re big and warm and strong; fingers battle-scarred and a bit rough, the hands of the hard-working.

Hooking his fingers under Q’s bent knees, Bond positions him how he wants him and Q thinks _finally, finally_ as Bond takes himself in hand and presses the head of his cock to his hole. Much to Q’s disappointment, however, he doesn’t move forward, instead rubbing against him over and over so the head catches and slides sweetly against him but never quite thrusts inside.

“God, I hate you, I really hate you,” Q groans, his attempts to writhe against the sheets futile as Bond holds him in place with apparently no effort at all.

“Oh good, we’re back to insulting me. I was beginning to worry you were starting to enjoy yourself,” Bond says so dryly that Q’s surprised he doesn’t fucking _choke_ on it, and then all thoughts scatter to oblivion as Bond pushes his hips forward inch by inch, Q’s fingers grasping at the sheets as he arches up to meet him.

Bond keeps going until he’s all the way inside, repositions his weight on his hands and then sets about fucking Q with slow, measured rolls of his hips. It’s ludicrously good, as always, and Q reaches behind himself to hold onto the bars of the headboard to enable him to lazily rock his hips up in time with Bond’s thrusts.

Everything narrows to the glorious drag of Bond’s thick cock inside him, and all the places where skin meets skin.

“Christ, I’ve wanted this since I got back,” Bond confesses, his voice a low rumble as he drives in deep. “Spent half of last night thinking about your posh voice and your stupid hair and your tight little arse.”

He sounds thoroughly annoyed by it, if anything, which is comical.

“And that’s my fault?” Q asks with a breath of a laugh that turns into a moan as Bond changes the angle of his hips. “Oh _yes_ , right there, that’s lovely.”

“Entirely,” Bond growls, and fucks into him hard enough that the bed shakes.

Hoisting Q’s legs up around his waist that bit higher, Bond gets down onto his forearms and presses his mouth to the underside of Q’s jaw. Q can feel him _everywhere_ , now that his weight is pressing him into the bed, and thinks he really might not last very long like this.

“Do you ever think of me?” Bond murmurs into Q’s hair, nipping at his earlobe, and while the lack of eye contact is probably as much for Bond’s benefit as it is for Q’s, Q can’t help but be grateful for it. Trust Bond to save the difficult questions for when he’s got Q on his back and he’s balls-deep inside him, honestly.

Palming over his shoulders and running his fingers through Bond’s short hair, Q remembers.

“Sometimes,” he admits, because if Bond can be honest then Q can be too.

Apparently Bond approves of that answer, the pistoning of his hips turning that little bit rougher as he presses their lips together with a satisfied sound.

“Good,” he says simply, and that’s that.

Languorously, Q rakes blunt fingernails across Bond’s back, feeling the ripple and flex of muscle, and takes great pleasure in it when Bond loses his rhythm for a second with a surprised little huff. Bond gets him back by bracing his toes against the bed for leverage and alternating his thrusts between shallow little dips and long, breathtaking base-to-tip movements that make Q wonder, briefly, if something can feel so good that a person may die from it.

“Are you close?” Bond asks him.

“ _Yes_ ,” Q says, twisting his hips, desperate for more. Q’s cock rubs against Bond’s abs each time they rock together and it’s somehow devastatingly good but not quite enough. “Please.”

He expects Bond to work a hand between them and instead feels shockingly, achingly empty when Bond, god _damn_ him, pulls out entirely.

“I’ve got you,” Bond says as he slides down Q’s body, taking Q’s cock into his mouth and pushing a couple of fingers into his hole simultaneously.

It takes only seconds for Q to come like that, generous suction combined with the flex of Bond’s fingers tipping him over the edge and working him through it until he feels thoroughly undone.

“Gosh,” Q says eventually, dazed and still sprawled on his back, blinking at the ceiling.

Bond wipes the back of his hand across his lips, looking smug, and positions himself down on his side next to Q. Turning Q’s head to him with gentle fingers, he brings their lips together and slips his tongue into Q’s mouth without preamble; orgasm-drunk, Q sighs against him, kissing him lazily and tasting himself in return.

Bond’s hand trails down Q’s stomach and he takes Q’s half-hard cock in a slack grip, lightly stroking him just enough to make him tremble from the oversensitivity.

“I’m not done with you yet,” Bond says quietly into his ear, all raw sensuality that even now, like this, makes Q want to say yes to whatever Bond is offering.

One of his hands finds Q’s hip, encouraging him over, and although Q expects to be turned all the way onto his stomach, Bond stops him when he’s stretched out on his side.

“Like this?” Q says, tucking an arm under his head to get comfortable.

“Like this,” Bond agrees in a low murmur as he fits himself up behind Q.

He pushes into Q slowly, panting hotly against the nape of Q’s neck, and it feels like the most intimate thing they’ve ever done together by far and yet entirely comfortable. Q hasn’t the energy or willpower to care too much when it feels this good, Bond rocking into him steadily and stroking his hands across Q’s body, fingers slotting over his ribcage and sliding down over his waist.

“Okay?” Bond says roughly, his fingers loosely encircling Q’s cock to give him something to rock into and gently teasing him back to hardness.

“Mm,” Q says contentedly, and it’s not quite a word, but it’ll do.

Bond fucks him like that for what feels like an age, drawing out his own pleasure for as long as possible. Q can’t even tell what time it is anymore; can’t for the life of him work out how long they’ve been here in this house and in this bed together.

“I think you have a thing for delayed orgasms,” Q says, tipping his head back with a satisfied sigh. He’s fully hard again, but his arousal lacks the desperate edge it had the first time around. “Yours, not mine. Either that, or you’re just a sodding great show-off.”

“I think you have a thing for letting me do all the work while you just lie there,” Bond teases, his breath warm against Q’s temple as he pushes in deep and circles his hips.

“Have at it,” Q agrees. “Use me to get off.”

That, apparently, excites Bond more than a bit, his fingers gripping at Q’s hip tellingly, a quiet hitch in his breath that Q doesn’t miss. It really is lovely when Q hints at his own kinks only to find that Bond’s even more into it than Q is himself.

“Is that so?” Bond asks, humour in his tone and voice impressively steady, but Q can feel the simmering energy under his skin and the wound up tension from holding on for so long.

“You can have me however you please. I think you’ve earned it.”

Bond pauses before slipping out and moving away; Q can’t see him anymore, given that Bond is behind him and Q can’t be arsed to move yet, but he can hear him slicking himself up with more lube and that alone makes him hot with anticipation.

Grabbing at Q’s waist and turning him onto his stomach, Bond slides a hand into Q’s hair and tugs hard enough to make his cock jerk. “You should get on your hands and knees for me now,” he says darkly, voice full of promise.

Q moves to comply straight away even if his limbs aren’t entirely cooperative, swaying a little as he slides his knees apart and dips his back.

Holding him steady, Bond wastes no time in getting back inside him, taking him as roughly and brilliantly as Q would have expected. Draping his weight over Q’s smaller frame, Bond slots his fingers between Q’s on the bed and Q feels utterly surrounded by him in every way.

“Can you come for me again?” Bond asks him, his mouth so close that Q can feel the brush of stubble against his cheek, and Q can hardly breathe with how turned on he is.

“I will if you bloody well touch me,” Q groans, and Bond, thank god, gets it.

It only takes few strokes for Q to start coming for the second time that evening, spilling onto the bed with a whimper that makes him bite down hard into his lower lip, and Bond’s close enough this time around that he groans out loud at the feel of it. Q’s still twitching through the aftershocks when Bond thrusts inside him a couple more times and finally hitches up into him with a sharp exhale, body going still as he pulses into the condom.

Still holding Q where he wants him, Bond stays inside for at least a minute after, giving tiny little shallow thrusts as he softens as if to savour the feeling, and eventually pulls out to roll over onto his back.

Q hasn’t the energy in him to do more than lie face-down on the bed, and when Bond gets up a few seconds later to go to the bathroom, Q spreads his limbs across the bed and groans quietly into the pillow, dignity be damned. He’s lying in come regardless, so there’s admittedly little dignity left to salvage anyway.

When Bond returns from the bathroom, he gives an amused snort and drops a wet flannel directly onto Q’s back because he’s a hateful prick.

“Ugh,” Q says. Everything feels wonderful but that, decidedly, did not.

“Would you move over?” Bond complains, rolling his eyes.

“No,” Q says petulantly, but does so anyway, turning onto his back to make room on the bed.

The flannel, unlike Bond, is actually rather nice, and once he’s done freshening himself up Q scrubs at the wet patch on the bed a little bit; it only makes it wetter, unfortunately, but at least Q won’t wake up sticky.

They lie together in silence for long minutes after, not touching but comfortably sharing space while they cool off and get their breath back. Q thinks that this time somehow managed to exceed the others – the other _nine times_ , apparently – which were of an admittedly phenomenal quality.

Eventually, Bond looks at his watch and slowly moves to sit on the edge of the bed, leaning down to pick up his shirt where it was left strewn across the floor.

“You should stay,” Q blurts out, and Bond pauses, looking back at him with his eyebrows raised. “I mean, if you want to. It’s late, I don’t mind if you sleep here.”

Q shuts up before he can say anything else, cursing himself; they haven’t ever, is the thing. Q has always strongly implied that he’s not comfortable with it, Bond has never argued, and that is how it goes until, apparently, it doesn’t.

“Thank you,” is all Bond says in response with a quick, barely-there smile that nevertheless reaches his eyes, and Q’s relieved that he doesn’t want to talk about it further.

Q picks at a loose thread on the duvet cover, at a loss for words. He really hadn’t planned on any of this.

“I’m going to brush my teeth. I can’t sleep if I haven’t brushed my teeth,” he says finally, sitting up and sliding his glasses back onto his nose.

Grabbing a pair of pyjama bottoms off the radiator as he goes, Q pulls them on for the sake of his modesty, not quite so confident in his own nudity under the bright lights of the bathroom. Bond, who wouldn’t know modesty if he tripped over it, follows him in naked.

As Q brushes his teeth, Bond steals the mouthwash from the cupboard and knocks back a capful of it like a shot before spitting it out messily into the sink whilst Q side-eyes him and tries to look as vaguely threatening as one can do with bed head and a mouthful of toothpaste.

“You have no sense of decorum,” Q complains after he’s spat _neatly_ into the sink from up close like a respectable person, rinsing his toothbrush clean.

“This is more effort than I would usually make post-shag, and I haven’t even been drinking,” Bond says. “Also, your arse looks bloody fantastic in those pyjamas.”

“Touché,” Q concedes.

Bond’s fingers roam over the expanse of Q’s naked back, tracing down his spine.

“I like you like this,” Bond says after a pause, and Q stares at him by way of the mirror.

“Well-fucked?” Q says blankly, because he really hasn’t a clue what Bond is on about and if he had to name ‘things I currently am’ it’d probably be top of the list.

“Well, that too,” Bond smirks at him. “But no. I meant in your home. It’s very -- domestic?”

He says it like it’s not a word that’s part of his usual vocabulary, like it’s something that other people have that he only gets to glimpse from the outside, but he also doesn’t sound particularly bothered by it.

“I suppose?” Q says eventually with a quirk of a smile. Bond moves behind him and kisses his neck, his fingers toying with the waistband of Q’s pyjama bottoms. “Honestly, you’re insatiable,” Q protests half-heartedly, batting away Bond’s hands and heading back into the bedroom, “I need _sleep_.”

It’s been several years since Q last shared a bed with anyone for a whole night, and it’s odd to feel the mattress dip with the weight of another body on the opposite side when he gets under the duvet.

“I don’t like to be touching someone in any way while I’m sleeping,” Q says quietly when they’re lying face to face. “I need my own space.”

When it comes to standard relationship practices, or even unnamed-thing-with-co-worker practices, Q is pretty sure that Bond is the more well-adjusted and less downright weird out of the two of them, and it’s in equal parts funny and tragic. Q has no intention of apologising for his own preferences, however; they are what they are.

“I sometimes sleep badly,” Bond says in return, and if Q had to guess he’d say that it’s probably the understatement of the year given Bond’s history. “Also, I had a gun strapped to my ankle earlier, it’s now somewhere on the floor. I’d like to put it under my pillow if you’ve no objections.”

“Alright,” Q agrees, and Bond rolls over momentarily to lean over the side of the bed to hunt for it. “Is it one of my guns?”

“No,” says Bond.

“Shame,” Q sighs, and Bond lets out an amused breath as he slides it beneath the pillow.

Placing his glasses on the bedside table once more, Q switches off the lamp, throwing the bedroom into almost-darkness.

Bond leans over to give him a goodnight kiss he isn’t expecting, and Q has long had an inkling that Bond is something of an old romantic even if the life he’s carved out for himself rarely allows him to indulge in that side of himself for long. Q kisses him back, sleepy and luxurious and unhurried as their ankles brush together under the covers, and thinks this part he could really get used to.

“Just so you’re aware,” Bond murmurs against his lips before pulling away and settling onto his back on his side of the bed, “in the morning when you wake – as soon as I have your permission to put my hands on you again – I intend to have you once more, face down against the sheets for as long as you can stand it.”

It sounds like a very agreeable way to start a lazy Sunday morning, all things considered, and they both know that Q isn’t going to turn him down when the time comes. Still, Q isn’t in the habit of giving in easily when it comes to giving Bond what he wants, and he affects a put-upon sigh.

“You should be so lucky,” he teases drowsily, eyes falling closed as he settles against the pillow to sleep.

“Yes,” Bond says softly into the dark as if struck by a sudden realisation, something thoughtful and affectionate in his tone. “Yes, I suppose I would be.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have a fic masterlist on [tumblr](http://hollybennett123.tumblr.com/post/134594005258/fic-numerical-data-james-bondq), if for some reason you enjoyed this chaotic insight into my brain enough to like or reblog over there :D ♥


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